


Bloody Darling Candy Striper

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dismemberment, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Impregnation, Knives, Masochism, Menstrual Sex, Murder, Mutilation, Obsession, Psychosis, Romance, Rough Sex, Sadism, Slurs, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, hacksaws, lots of blood, poorly characterized insanity, tons of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anonymous asked: I got a prompt idea for Eddie maybe? A female patient escapes during all the chaos of whistleblower and in the ensuing chase hides in the male ward. And Eddie can't help but fall in love.A/N: I couldn't stick to the exact parameters of this request for my own reasons but I think you'll like this despite some of the changes I've made. Starring a former patient, turned nurse, with an obsession who's assigned to look after a recaptured and very much alive Eddie Gluskin. There is chaos and lots of blood and sex and dark, messy romantic love. Hope you enjoy it!See tags for warnings. There's a lot of them.





	Bloody Darling Candy Striper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



He’s brought to Skelbrick Hospital with rebar in his innards, little bundles of damaged organ tissue rising from torn flesh like budding roses under morning dew. Blood drying and skin puffy and swollen, needing to heal around metal. 

 

Your first impression is taken from video footage, but what your eyes couldn’t see was enhanced by a looping mental reel composed via handwritten accounts. You found yourself both distraught and eager when Dr. Rohrmann assigned the shifts, appointing you on the eight p.m. to six a.m. in room three-three-one in the dreaded A-block.

 

Mr. Gluskin’s room was the same that they’d used on another victim of the Morphogen Engine a month back. It was still fit with the same precautionary equipment and stripped walls - all skinned patches where monitoring machines once hung - and flat concrete tile to wash away the fluids should Eddie kill again. The rusty red stains underneath the bolted bed frame must have been soaked four inches down into the porous concrete because you’d personally seen the tireless medical cleaners get nowhere with it.

 

After your briefing, the darkroom becomes alight with impatient gruffs and the tread of squeaky sneakers.

 

You’re barricaded in the short space with an armed outside-security officer and several other employees as well as Dr. Rohrmann, Dr. West and Mr. Dyer whom will be the three chief devil's overseeing Mr. Gluskin until no longer was he of any interest or purpose. 

 

Poor Eddie, you think as the reel of footage ends and the well-dressed envoy from Murkoff smirks, flipping off the projector switch. 

 

As sepia-tone light fills the dark coffin-room, you swallow a growl and stare straight ahead; emotionless. 

 

Eddie...

 

… a man whom they’d left on a gurney in the hallways, confirmed expired by the time they'd set him in the para-copter for transport. This monster was the man they’d turned their worlds around for - not for the good of course, because when did these men do anything that wasn't fueled by the corruption of power and the temptation of wealth? Never. Even their wives at home were symbols of their growing hold upon the world, and when they ascended another plane, a new model was interchanged for the old. 

 

Tossed aside...

 

The Murkoff envoy, standing iron-pressed on the makeshift podium, removes his canary-gold framed glasses and smiles like an eel wearing human skin. His briefing was unnecessarily gleeful and smug, though you expect nothing less from one of these men.

 

According to the reports, Eddie had arisen like some revenant, sawed-off rebar sticking from his gut as he broke the neck of an orderly. Giddy, precise and sudden - at least, that's what the cameras had shown. The statement filed by the security staff said he was singing when he did it and that it’d taken three men and a staff nurse with about one-hundred and twenty milligrams of Succinylcholine IV to put him down.

 

Apparently, the dapper fiend had gone still while humming show tunes. The thought almost made you smile. 

 

The gossip was rampant in an environment like this one, so most of the information this smug eel doled out was public information as far as you were concerned. It was enjoyable, on a low level, when you realize how little credit these men give the ‘roaches’ under their employ. Some of this you already know, and more you understand.

 

While you didn’t partake in the gossip, you had any many ears as the next person, and you were always a good listener. The threat, sometimes worse than employment termination, didn't stop others from recanting events until Mr. Gluskin was not merely a man with a severe host of mental disorders, but a supernatural-like entity who had cheated death just to rectify the seedy decisions made on behalf of the many wealthy Murkoff shareholders.

 

Behind closed lips, you could think anything you wanted about the corporation - and perhaps, well… if something grave happened to them, it would be a long time coming. You wouldn’t shed a tear, at least not a real one, and then only if they were watching.

 

By the time you were assigned to Mr. Gluskin’s cell, he’d killed four of your coworkers: two women and two men. The man on his ‘podium’ with the glasses and the smile disclosed the confidential reports to each one of you with relish.

 

On Eddie Gluskin’s first evening, he’d killed twice. The second victim had been fucking his last victims, and so the two women he killed afterward were fair game for the gossip train. You’ve heard tales of him violating their corpses before he could be sedated again. Some people said he sang to the ladies before he slit them from belly to throat, ripping out their sexual organs so he could fuck the heated mess in some insane procreation ritual. The outlandish stories worried you about as much as they did the next employee, but you had a little ‘interest’ that separated the fear from other emotions.

 

If Mr. Gluskin had turned into an organ-fucker, well... there were worse things you’ve heard of happening.

 

You weren't dumb enough to feed into the stories - weren't important enough to get away with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but you’re readiness to take your assigned position without a fuss gave you a little extra nod of appreciation. It didn’t hurt that Dr. Rohrmann thought you his personal nurse, to do with as he pleased.

 

After everything, your lack of hesitation is seen as a sign of dedication and not insanity. 

 

Most of them were insane though, just a different kind, one more acceptable in today's current social standings. It didn’t help that they’d begun regularly sending in orderlies to watch you feed Eddie’s IV full of mood stabilizers, silently considering the way your fingers shook or didn’t as the drugs flooded his veins. Any errant twitch or smile or extended look would be noted and filed in a briefing for your higher-ups - for the Doctors and all the fucking good they did.

 

Most times Eddie was too drugged to notice you - it was safer that way, but monotonous and not what you’d been excited to see from him. Sometimes a name would pass his lips but unintelligible at best. With everyone keeping him monitored and sedated there was no time to linger on him. 

 

He was wasting away.

 

They all were.

 

In two months, the white coats and Dr. West had pulled about as much out of him as they could. You were there most times when they picked his brain or at least made substantial attempts to stay later or come in earlier if you got wind of a session outside his regular schedule. 

 

They’d  given you a mesh metal mask for you to wear when he was lucid, both to keep your eyes safe and face anonymous if for some reason he managed to escape the facility and hunt down his ‘captors.’ That was assuming he could traverse the craggy mountain without any shoes or hitch a ride when the only people coming up from the town below was employees or patients or the dead. 

 

The whole thing is foolish - all this precaution and especially the mask. If Eddie Gluskin wanted to harm you, he’d go for the soft meaty parts of you. He’d wish to keep your eyes intact, so you could witness your organs spilling out your torn, ragged belly.

 

Sometimes, after your shift, you went to sleep wondering what sort of look he’d wear as he fucked your entrails. The thought was disturbing, but more than once it’s made your heart race; confused as to whether you were horrified or aroused. There’s no telling what’s wrong with you - what’s always been wrong with you. No one’s ever been able to diagnose the problem, let alone fix it and by now you’re accepting of it to the point that when you awaken from another fit of dreams, you don’t fight the urge.

 

Behind the blackout drapes, under the covers, you throw your back against the mattress and let your legs fall open. Your fingers don’t work. Nothing works to satisfy the gore-ified lust. Only Eddie can and will cure the sickness inside you. 

 

Dr. Rohrmann prefers you over Nurse Rosa because your fingers don’t snap and twitch when you’re in Mr. Gluskin’s presence. 

 

During his therapy sessions, they have you roll in a tall, white table with a syringe pre-prepared on a white cotton sheet. You stand silent in the corner of the neutral toned room with the large sofa and mahogany coffee table, laden with tissues and playdough - for the more jittery sort. Eddie sits with his thick, long legs spread inside the green hospital clothes; wrists and ankles secured with pounds of steel chain that thread and lock in the floor. 

 

He looked better in the suit he came in with but the thin cotton doesn’t hide the strength below and for that, you stare, thankful for the mask. If only for the fact that Murkoff spies can see you looking at their experiment with longing, you smirk and imagine the bare ropes of hard muscle, dusted in more of that dark hair and… and you can’t help but imagine yourself slipping under his secured wrists, folding back the tight drawstring pants and feeding his cock inside your cunt.

 

Would he tighten his arms around your back, spread his legs a little wider and bash your bare ass with the tops of his thighs as thick cock tore at your insides? - Would he sing as his chains rattled and your voice echoed with pleasure? Maybe… or maybe he’d throw his head back and slap his teeth down on your neck, digging in deep so he could tear out artery and tendon in a hot spray of red matter.

 

You stand there, hands folded in your lap with your heart tapping rhythmic beats under your ribs and imagine how hard he’d pull you apart if it were just you and him and no syringe. 

 

Dr. West, with his trimmed mustache and folded legs, asks his questions but the earplugs they force you to wear keeps their voices a low drone in your head. 

 

You’ve yet to hear what Mr. Gluskin sounds like lucid but the deep hum of his voice - foggy like under a rip current - haunts you at night. You’ve taken to sleeping with the radio on, anything to stop thinking about what he honestly sounds like because nothing takes away the ache he brings.

 

Amidst his fourth therapy session, you catch him looking at you. One prospective assessment from your black slippers to the hair band smoothing your bangs back over your forehead. His gaze doesn’t linger, but it’s enough to make your elbow jerk. You’re not sure why the busted red in his left eye makes his gaze all the more intense, but it does, and you’ll be hearing from Dr. Rohrmann about the involuntary movement. 

 

Of course, the good Doctor will package the question in tilted sympathy, something to the effect of ‘Are you still alright with overseeing this one?’ Or maybe he’ll put a weathered hand on your shoulder and urge you into the supply closet under the guise of talking privately, but you know what he really wants. You know what a man like him desires, and you’ll suffer through it so you can keep injecting Eddie with chemical cocktails. You’ll endure the boring attentions of an old, perverted man so you can keep watching Mr. Gluskin during his sessions. 

 

One day, not far from now, you think, they’ll lose interest and get lazy - one day you’ll be able to replace his injections with saline, switch off the cameras and slide yourself into his lap… undo his restraints and let him make a painting of you on the floors and walls.

 

Your chest rises and falls, unsteady for a moment before calming yourself as Eddie’s session comes to a close. Just the thought of his fingers running through wet flesh, coated in juices both clear and ruddy makes the clean cotton panties between your legs dampen. 

 

His appointment ends without any ordeals, just as the last three had. Another syringe emptied out in the waste bin… another reason for them to get comfortable and another sleepless night with the stained memory of his mismatched eyes running up your body.

 

Regular doses of barbiturates and anti-psychotics tended to lose their luster after so long, and it’s on a raining evening with the wind howling through four inches of porthole glass in his cell that you pause, noticing the clear way his eyes glide over your thin fingers. 

 

“No wedding ring?” he asks, sounding hoarse and pleased, like honey mixed with silt. 

 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him without the fog of the drugs or the barrier of earplugs, and you swallow, holding your breath with your thumb on the plunger; needle shoved into the IV port. He watches you - hunting the fast mounting fear with his eyes, cornering it at the back of your throat - as his arms bulge against the soft leathered restraints locked on his wrists. 

 

The soft dusting of hair on his forearms adds to the shadows created by the stiff muscles, making the veins that protrude and pulse all the more obvious. He’s beautiful and dangerous, and with a steady breath you hold in a soft beg and push down. 

 

The drugs hit him like slow poison. You hold your breath, marinating the air in your lungs until his thick lashes begin to flutter. 

 

Eddie grins as the chemicals lull him into a state of comatose, locking his gaze with yours until you’re sure he can’t see you any longer. Soon, his eyes are as dull as the skinned walls all around you. They’re still watching through the cameras, you remind yourself, feeling your heart race as Mr. Gluskin’s grin dims into a smile and then into nothing at all. 

 

He deserves better than this.

 

Not much longer now. Only a matter of weeks until you can flush Eddie clean and let him wet his fingers. 

 

That morning before your shift ends, you pull Dr. Rohrmann aside, polite and appropriately tired - smiling warmly inside your winter coats - and tell him about Mr. Gluskin’s rise to lucidity.

 

“Yes, I noticed it in his pupils first and then he made a comment about the thunder - said he could count the lightning and the booms, you know that old wives tale,” you lie, wrapping a wool scarf over your chin, “he was babbling but I wanted to let you know in case it was important.”

 

Dr. Rohrmann smiles in a manner that says he’s taken the bait, looking on at the charts on the reception counter just long enough to seem like he was skimming Eddie’s medication list. 

 

Increase the dosage, he says with a professional timbre, noticing the group of interns down the corridor and the Nurse Rosa arriving for the day shift.

 

Thankfully, he settles on a handshake and wishes you a pleasant day and to stay warm because the roads are full of black ice thanks to the rain during the night. It’s only with Eddie’s strong hands and blood-stained eye in your memory that you don’t swerve off the road, crash the sedan and send yourself off with a crushed sternum and scrambled brain. 

 

The thoughts of suicide are less frequent now that you’ve been off the pills for the last five months, but they still tickle your hands when the roads are particularly hazardous. Why it’s always car crashes, you’d stopped wondering.

 

What matters is you don’t hit a patch of black ice with intent. You drive slow all the way back home, leave your lights off and lock your door. The warm air of your living room hits your bare toes like ice and the smooth hot skin under your coats with the same venom. 

 

It’s with a mild chill and goosebumps running down your naked legs and uncovered arms - the memory of Eddie watching your fingers on the syringe - that you slide twitching fingers down your stomach and run a single finger over your clit. The pleasure is hard to elicit no matter how oversensitive you feel. There’s no helping it. Instead of trying to wrangle something dull out of your body, you make tea, dress in thick sweats and don your old hospital gown. The bleached yet still-stained material hangs like a safety blanket although the memories it brings are less than pleasant.

 

That night you dream of razor blades smoothing through the thick muscle over your abdomen, brawny fingers delving inside to pry apart the tight, hot flesh and slurping the blood from purple bulbs of knotted innards. 

 

When you wake up, there’s blood between your legs and sweat coating your skin as sickly sweet smelling as overripe fruit.

 

You arrive to work hours after the sun went down, a cup of black coffee in your gloved hands, a tampon already half-saturated, and fresh, clean skin under your grey scrubs.

 

Dr. Rohrmann doesn’t find you until halfway through your shift, minutes before Eddie’s injection. He corners you in the supplies closet, gathering the packaged syringe, saline flush and alcohol swabs with a jaunty show tune in your throat. His hand strokes your lower back, sudden and without warning, making your bounce and jolt against the cabinet. You turn and his hips press, pinning yours against the counter with one of those looks on his face.

 

You suffer through a few wet kisses, a squeeze of your breast and then there are voices outside the door, and he pulls away, leaving you with an angry stain on your cheeks that he must note for a blush because he smirks; daring. The high of an old man fooling around with a young nurse while the wife’s at home, you think, smiling despite the bile rising in the back of your throat.

 

“I had some,” his voice lowers, “awfully explicit dreams about you last night.”

 

The distance he puts between you two is professional, nothing out of the ordinary when one of the new interns comes in on the coat heels of a frazzled looking dayshift nurse. Dr. Rohrmann spares them a cursory look before pulling a prescription note from his coat pocket.

 

“I spoke with Dr. West, and he agrees with me that Mr. Gluskin’s dosage needs to go up by thirty. Our  _ patient _ might be a little more lucid this morning, but I trust you’ll ignore him. Just keep up the good work you’ve been doing, and I’ll make sure to speak with Mr. Dyer at the board before the holidays.”

 

The day shift nurse scowls, stuffing her intern’s arms with plastic wrapped blankets and a catheter kit.

 

“Yes, Doctor,” you say, succinct and curt. There’s nothing a winning smile can’t solve, so you make sure to give onto the nurse on your way out, even if she seems less than happy to receive it.

 

The hallways are always barren at this hour - the witching hour. Three-twenty and another two hours until the end of your shift. 

 

Sometimes, like this morning, you feel the urge to take a double, so that you’ll have a little more time with him. You’ve seen very little of him tonight and with every step closer to his room - his cell - your heartbeat quickens.

 

Eddie’s awake and more than lucid when the guards let you in and lock the door behind you. His eyes widen, like a hunter spotting some weak, easy prey and quickly narrows after a quick assessment. The look, this time, is less calculating and more visceral. A skinny twang of pleasure pulls up under your navel at the way he stares and then… smiles…

 

“ _ My darling, _ ” he oozes, white teeth striking against the peak of his pink gums. There’s a little streak of wet red at the corner of his mouth as if he’d been chewing on the inside of his cheek. You know because it’s a habit you’ve overcome yourself, though you’ve replaced the chewing with other vices. Like him, you think, trying your best not to smile as his eyes stay glued to your face as you walk towards his bedside. 

 

The cords in his neck stand out; shaved scalp itching back against the old pillow behind his neck. 

 

With your back to the camera and his cocktail in your fingers, you smile and squeeze all but half of the syringe inside the firm hospital mattress.

 

The way his face lights up tugs at your heartstrings, pulling moisture out your cunt and a soft tremble to your lower lip. If it weren’t for the cameras, you’d throw the syringe away and remove your clothes. If not for the eyes watching, you’d straddle his hips, cut away his cuffs and let him fuck you to death… or strangle you… or whatever he wants. You want him to take your life between his palms and do with you what he pleases.

 

“Oh, my sweet darling girl… you know candy stripers don’t belong in grey.”

 

There’s no sure way to know whether they’ve bugged the rooms or not, so you say nothing, but there’s no helping the smile that further twists your lips. You’d prefer something white as well, but the grey hides fluid stains, and maybe, after this morning, you’ll take a trip down to the mall and spend money you don’t care about on white undergarments with the intent to ruin them. Blood soaked white lace and torn string. You can see the desire mimicked in his eyes that must be flooding out of yours and swallow. His eyes dart to your throat as it works gently around a well of saliva, nostrils flaring with a peek of teeth from betwixt his lips.

 

Eddie, sinew, and bone, bloodlust and something else unknown - you want him. Need him. Addictions are a dominant, senseless mistress and as you grip the syringe in your fingers, your hands shake.

 

They’ll see - they’ll notice, and Dr. Rohrmann will say something about it, but it can’t be helped. No matter how carefully you try to breathe, the way he looks at you is as good as a fist squeezed around your heart; plucking timed beats with fingers and nails.

 

His lips spread, exposing those handsome features stuffed under scars and crazy. 

 

“I say… something white,” he chuckles thinly, “with splashes of red to accentuate a few parts. Such a beautiful present needs an equally beautiful wrapping.”

 

It gives you no joy to shove the needle inside the soft rubber cap of his port. There’s no sweet relief as you flush him full of sedatives and antipsychotics except knowing that the dosage now is nothing compared to what he’s been given over the months. 

 

Eddie smirks, fingers curling beneath your wrists and tells you with steel wool in his throat, “Please, give my thanks to the Doc for me. You’re… just…  _ so perfect. _ ”

 

As the drugs warm inside his veins, you mouth a gentle ‘please,’ watching the way his pupils dilate on your mouth. A slow grin spreads on his face. He’s dangerously handsome, even looking at you like he is. Despite toying with you - especially toying with you - your insides clench with longing.

 

Under the tanned, hair-dusted skin of his hands, his tendons pull taut; knuckles rolling as his fists clenched and release. He licks his lower lip and makes a show of fluttering his lashes, pretending to go under after that, and for a second you can’t breathe. You did it! 

 

Sweat pulls up on your forehead, and with full eyes, you stare at his chest until the realization hits home. Nothing is going to stop him now. You’ve sealed the fates of whoever gets in his way, but most importantly you’ve sealed your own.

 

You leave ten minutes early, too overstimulated by the idea of what might happen in the coming evening. With bile staining the back of your throat, you complain of a stomach ache. No one but a few nurses see you leave and no one stops you outside in the cold winter air. 

 

The drive home is shaky; dangerous. It’s twilight, and everything sucks up the hue of blue and purple like a stain that’ll never rub out. The wet, frost-tinted trees bend under hard winds as you drive down the mountain roads, passing twin headlights every so often as the next shift starts their day. How you end up in your home, alive and sane makes little sense, but you lay there on your bedroom floor with a dazed expression and decide that you’ll die in the next twenty-four hours.

 

He thought you were perfect...

 

The world is until now was starting to slip and blend. 

 

The nights feel like disjointed pieces of a great puzzle with no end and no flush set, at least not many. Months feel like years and days all wrapped into one; a never-ending cycle of darkness and morning light with brief periods of nothing to separate them, but the days of sleep are starting to feel like blinks. It feels like you’ve been awake forever and Eddie is the only one who can put you to bed.

 

Suicidal romanticism has bled into pure romance. Eddie will kill you when he gets his hands on you. He was a killer before the Morphogenic Engine woke him up and he is a killer still, and maybe he doesn’t remember you, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not the same person you were all those years ago anyhow.

 

You’re not the woman he once hunted, and you’d like to say you’d be his last, but there will be more after you. God have mercy, but you’ve given him the best type of freedom - the ability to free himself. 

 

Fresh, yellow light falls through your bedroom window, painting your grey scrubs and twitching fingers in brightness, cut with dappling shadows from the elm tree that hangs on the west side of the house. Little specks of dust float within the bands of sunshine; too lazy to fall any faster.

 

You need him now. Just the thought of another day of waiting hurts. Existence is numbing, but Eddie makes your blood feel like it’s on fire and you’ll gladly burn inside his grasp.

 

Nothing about this is romantic; you know that, but as you lay there, deciding that tonight will be the night, you can’t help but smile.

 

“... no need to come for me, Eddie,” you utter, kissing warm rays of morning light, “I’m coming for you this time.”

 

Waking rituals have always steadied you and that evening is no different. You shower, shave, lotion up and fix a tampon inside your cunt as the bathroom clears of warm mist. In preparation for the night, you roll your hair up in a loose bun, fix a few strands around your cheeks and pinch them until they’re pink and youthful. 

 

A stranger stares at you in the mirror, half manipulated by steam still clinging to the surface but when you smile - eyes so very alive - it’s you staring back.

 

The evening radio jockey cracks his jokes, trying to find a segway into the recent crooked real estate development down on the east side of town but none of that will matter to you come sun up. A few cars pass by, some already throwing up their headlights while others careen around the slopes and rock faces near-blind; speeding fast as if trying to outrun a tornado. For a second you wonder if he’s already begun his carnage… but… he wouldn’t start without you. Would he?

 

The sign for Skelbrick Hospital hums like angry neon crickets as you pass by the entryway but the usuals are smoking cigarettes out back like normal. As you park, you catch your own dilated eyes in the rear-view mirror as the town below starts to fog with distant pounding rain. 

 

Dr. West won’t buy your wild wet eyes; trimmed in red. You hadn’t slept well today, and it shows. What also shows, is that you’re on the cusp of a mental breakdown and though the idea of one is exciting instead of stressful, no one will smile at you unless you get rid of the harried look in your eyes. 

 

You look like a patient. Like someone about to die, you think near giddily.

 

No, Dr. West will take one look at you and decide there’s something wrong - that everything’s wrong and at best he’ll send you home and at worst? You’ll get thrown in a room like Eddie’s; only no one will care about you to check more than once a day. You’ll be forgotten and left to wither away on a cocktail of mismatched pills and your own excrement.

 

Sheet lightning makes the sky look like bombs are hitting the town of Arklane and beyond. 

 

You place a little caplet of valium under your tongue, sit and wait thirty minutes, watching the display of weather warfare until your dash clock strikes the beginning of your shift. Little patters of rain hit your cheeks as you rush through the back double doors. You run until your still half-frazzled expression bellies a girl that’s late for work, instead of one that’s accepted the best and the worst. 

 

A crack of thunder booms, rattling the bolted down plaques on the corridor walls. 

 

Two orderlies startle, looking at their watches in sync. They don’t look at you. In fact, no one notices you. 

 

Of the few you see, they all wear similar looks of dread; pale-faced panic about to rupture. You blink, too concerned with looking less spooked yourself, to worry about it or their reasonings. If it’s Eddie on the loose, you’ll know soon enough.

 

The back door slams open, startling your frail nerves as another employee rushes in. 

 

Outside, the storm has reached Skelbrick. Winter showers this high up the mountain are unpredictable and loud, but you saw this depression building to the point that it feels like an old friend coming to visit. The thin atmosphere makes every crack and boom more pronounced and earth-shattering, but it helps cover up the real reason you still look spooked. 

 

You clock in, stare at your punch card and - with no doctors waiting for you at the reception hall - you grab your gear, smooth your bangs back and move to the storage room for Eddie’s next dosage as usual. No one suspects anything, you think, smiling as you fill a syringe halfway with saline flush and pluck a bottle of Thorazine off the shelf.

 

Outside, the storm grows fatter, pounding against the east wall of the building as you stare with longing at the glass bottle of drugs and turn it over in your palm. 

 

A sudden loud boom cuts out the power. The storage room flickers with black, throwing you in utter darkness for a long, heart-pounding couple of minutes. Each second is like a slap in the face. 

 

Fear. Good old fashion fear strangles you. 

 

The darkness… fuck...

 

You don’t like this type of black pitch and the noises of people shuffling, and blaring questions is the only thing that keeps your mind afloat. When you’d injected Eddie’s mattress with half his drugs, you hadn’t thought about the power going out...

 

The generator will kick on soon; you remind yourself of that over and over again until it becomes a reality. 

 

Light surges on, pulsing dim then bright, dark again and then stable and blinding and finally, you exhale as your world is once again alive with light. The valium keeps the full-blown panic at bay, but the introduction of your old phobia lingers in your palpitating heart. 

 

The noises return to normal, employees rushing to get home before the worst gets worse. Wet sneakers skid the linoleum as more staff arrive for their shift. You inhale a deep breath, let it fill your lungs and exhale, counting to four. Four more times you breathe in - in and out - counting until your heart rate falls even and steady. 

 

There’s a smile of relief twitching at your lips when you look down to find the bottle of Thorazine broken in your fist; blood weeping down between your fingers from the deep slice the thin shards cut inside your palm. When the lights went out, you must have crushed it. 

 

Someone screams far away, down the corridor - muffled through the closed folding doors - and with an electric click, the lights go out again. They’re not coming back on; you know they won’t. Eddie’s gotten free, and he’s begun the party right on time. You grin, shaking droplets of Thorazine off your bloody fingertips and shudder with raw glee in the darkness. It’ll be just like before - like Mount Massive but on a smaller scale... more personal now.

 

As the sounds of everyone’s panic reaches your ears, you wipe the drugs from your hand and breathe through the infectious noise. Everything shakes - your hands, temples, breath and somewhere, buried between two sick halves of grey, you realize the extent of what you’ve done, but there’s little sympathy.

 

The backup generators are dead which means the patient's restraint won’t have an electric backup. Any of them sober or manic enough to break their chains will find an unlocked door for them to slip through. A free pass to deliver carnage on their captors. 

 

Suddenly you wish you could have timed this ‘breakout’ for when the next Murkoff envoy was scheduled to visit. Out of any of them on the company payroll, perhaps it was that eel that needed to see what his small intestines looked like under fluorescent lighting most of all. Dr. Rohrmann was a close second...

 

You turn, staggering along the shelves and pause, listening as a female scream cuts through the silence. Painting the floor, from underneath the folding doors, is a steady pulse of red light. You follow it out the doors. 

 

Emergency lights - red and white - expose the carnage being delivered around the nurse's station and joining corridors. 

 

A patient, straddling a nurse on the floor, with chains still wiggling around his wrists is tearing a hole in her stomach; tugging out ropes of guts with a feral expression. You cock your head to the side and watch as the man, once he notices his victim is dead, begins to untie his hospital pants. 

 

You look away, holding the edge of the door as blood fills the hallways.

 

A group of staff members race in front of you, screaming and begging for mercy. One woman, another escaped patient with surgery scissors, sprints after them and you cover your mouth to hold back a laugh… or a sob… you don’t know anymore. Everything feels like a nightmare - old memories resurfacing and while it’s what you expected to happen there’s a certain amount of terror at witnessing it all.

 

Someone hits the wall in front of you. Dr. West whimpers, clutching a black, bloodstained vest pocket. His glasses look broken and askew over a nose that leans too far to one side. His eyes roll around in the darkness to your left until his gaze finds you and for a second you looks hopeful. 

 

“... oh god, what are you doing!? We-we have to go, have to run,” his voice is haunting. The usual professional cadence with which you know him by is broken and afraid. It’s almost amusing, knowing the monster he is behind those shattered glasses and seeing how he breaks down when confronted with those that wear their vitriol on the outside.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him as your knuckles go white against the door frame. He looks at you like you’ve gone insane. Well, you have, haven’t you? - Always have been, perhaps. 

 

Dr. West snarls and reaches out to you as if he’s going to decide your fate for you - a though he has the right to drag you kicking and screaming to safety, that doesn't work out so well for him.

 

The tweed-jacketed arm he stretches out towards you is quickly sliced nearly in half by a stocky man with a bone saw about half his size. The serrated blade hums almost silently - the machine meant to split ribs is no match for a brittle man’s arm, and you wince gently as flecks of hot blood speckle your face.

 

The doctor screams, making these huffing sounds as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You suppose staring at your arm as it hangs on by a thread would be shocking too.

 

“... help me,” is the last thing Dr. West says. It’s fitting you think, as he crumples to the floor, that a man who was supposed to help people, but never did, would beg for the same thing he was meant to deliver… but you weren’t going to help him. No one was going to help him.

 

The bone saw hums beside you. 

 

Trapped in a strange hypnotic lull, you barely react but to make red-laced eye contact with the man wielding the deadly ‘weapon.’ He jerks, shifting around you and gurgles like there’s a quart of phlegm in his throat.

 

“Oooo, I ‘member you,” he oozes - all disgusting charm and lowers the saw, “... lil’ miss wackadoo, yeah? He’s ah’ cummin’ for you. Stay whole, lady - stay hole’hole’hole.”

 

“Eddie?” you ask, sounding lovingly obsessed even to yourself.

 

The man just grins and grabs a fistful of Dr. West’s hair before dragging him off. You always thought the doctor wore a toupee… but it seems you’d been wrong about that. Nothing but an irregular trail of black blood is left behind him, like a snail trail of slime.

 

Where before there had been haunting animal screams of terror and pain, there’s now the soft smack of that one patient jerking himself off over the fallen nurse. A couple of whimpers of pain here and there filter through the walls but the rest? - The rest of the chaos has spilled out the exit doors and through the rest of the hospital.

 

The silent alarm spreads over the dark floor and retreats; repeating. 

 

Fresh blood trickles into your tampon, threatening to spill inside your white underwear as the gap between your fear and excitement grows thinner. You step carefully around the furiously masturbating murderer on the floor, step over a dry looking corpse and tiptoe down the red fanning hallway towards the A-block patient ward where Eddie’s room is situated.

 

Down the corridor with the red exit sign ablaze, you see the slumped form of a staff surgeon sitting like a drunk against the wall. The dark path splattered on the wall above them is blood. The corpse casts a long shadow every time the warning light pulsates, and out from the darkness, you think you hear humming.

 

Eddie, you think, blinking against the fast flashing red-white as a figure steps out from a sea of black. 

 

A male - striking in his profile - stands with his shoulders reared back, hips thrown forwards in a jutting manner. The knife held loosely in his hand catches the lights, and with a flip of his wrist, it throws a hard beam of brilliant red towards you.

 

You take a step back and feel the soft body of someone behind you. You startle, eyes wide on Eddie’s gorgeous silhouette - flipping his knife back and forth to a nameless song - as hands encircle you from behind. With a muted scream you kick your ankle back and tangle your fingers around the plastic cuff of another escapee. 

 

Slobber runs like a busted pipe down the side of your throat, and when a hand rips off your shoulder and hurries to grab at your soft breast, you snarl loud enough to rival an enraged beast.

 

Down the corridor, Eddie goes quiet and whips his head around at the noise you make. 

 

It’s him. You’re even more certain of it now. There’s no mistaking those broad shoulders and tapered waist. No one else could have legs as long and thick with arms just as robust and hands that massive.

 

“Is that my Darling!? - My sweet candy striper…  _ oh, God _ ,” his voice rumbles, suddenly so concerned and haggard and fiendish, “Someone’s found you first?! No, no, no… that simply won’t do!”

 

Someone else's spit warms it’s way down your neck as Eddie’s sober voice elicits a twang to that hidden string from your throat to your groin. Having this other man’s hand massaging your flesh, trying to drag you away as your stomach knots in pleasure only makes your nose wrinkle and curl. How dare this bastard try and join in your moment with Eddie - stealing his effect on your for his own...

 

With gummy red fingers, you paw at the hands around your body, feel skin break under your nails, until a sob falls out of the mouth at your ear. 

 

As Eddie groans, slowly walking down the hallway towards you, you twist in the fat-bellied man’s grip - nails drenched in blood and bits of flesh - and throw your head into where you assume his face is. The sound of his nose crunching gives you a sudden spike of sick glee, and when the man goes down, you follow him, slamming the side of your fist into his face over and over again.

 

You and Eddie are going to have fun tonight. Blood spilling and hips writhing… the sound of disgusting bliss and blades curling hot and low. If a mass of doctors and Murkoff agents haven’t stopped you yet then surely this mess of bone and blood underneath you don't stand a chance.

 

Against your back, another puff of heat triggers your primal fuck, fight and run center. Still in fight mode, you jerk and open your bloody hands around whoever's clamoring against you in the darkness. A flash of emergency red casts Eddies grinning mask in a toxic glow, making the blood decorating his face nothing but ebony ink stains.

 

Eddie’s hands take hold of your wrists, pulling you so close you can smell the musk beneath the carnage. The hilt of the knife digs into the knob of bone beneath the thin skin of your wrist, but you don’t mind.

 

“You know the more we dance like this, the more I want you.” Eddie chuckles darkly. 

 

Another flash of red light fills his wild eyes with a burning fire. You tremble, feeling the body under your hips twitch as Eddie releases your wrist, holding you still by the shoulder so he can drag the flat of his blade just under your eye.  

 

“Men! - such beasts we are...”

 

For a long moment, you’re thunderstruck, much like the landscape outside the hospital. Eddie studies you as he had in Dr. West’s office, but you’re not wearing that stupid mask now… though, with the darkness and the fiery glow, you worry what he sees this time.

 

“Such a beautiful creature I’ve attracted… _ hmmm _ ,” he inhales dramatically, almost purring as though he can smell your sweetness beyond the tang of rot filling the hallways, “I feel as though… we’ve met before. You well-traveled little minx.”

 

You inhale, a bolt of fear strangling your throat as Eddie twists the blade over your cheekbone and presses the edge deep enough to bring forth a well of warm blood. He groans as though you have your hands on his cock when you make a soft sound of pain. 

 

“You broke my arm at Mount Massive…” you remind him, trembling and hating yourself for it, “I-I… I was the one with the shaved head… and the bandages.”

 

“Oh,  _ yessss _ ,” Eddie groans, slicing you from cheek to chin, not too deep but enough that you cry out and hiss. He catches the rivulet of blood off your jaw with his tongue; a long, hot drag of his moist muscle through the wound and nearly over your eye. The contact makes your whole body break out in a rash of heat. 

 

“Such a little harlot after all those jolts from the big bad men in white coats… oh, but you’ve aged like a fine wine, my Darling.”

 

Fuck… you hadn’t been ready for this… it’s too much and yet…

 

The broken man underneath you groans in pain as you paw mindlessly around Eddie’s thick neck, dragging his lips to your own with a desperate, hungry sob. His lips split into a grin against your kisses, but he doesn't return the gesture. In your frenzy, you bite his lower lip and get the tip of his knife shove under your chin. 

 

Eddie chuckles, licking your spit off his lips like it’s spilled ambrosia and drives you back against the man under you; pinning you there until your back is flush with the uneven, dying breath below. Against your parted lips, Eddie leans in and whispers one word that makes your whole body ache.

 

“... run.”

 

Eddie rolls you off the man with one swipe of his hand, smacks your rear hard enough to drive you forward on your knees and though you don't see it, you can hear the chip of his knife as he stabs the blade into the man you’d bloodied. He thrusts it so deep his blade hits the hard floor below.

 

You run.

 

You can almost hear the big band, and the violin scratching as Eddie begins to sing off-key, “ _... the party's over now... the dawn is drawing very nighhhhh. _ ” 

 

As your shoulder barrels open the door towards the A-block, you mutter half swears and prayers for a long messy end. The only thing that could ruin tonight would be a quick death… or a death by someone else’s hands. You want Eddie to take his time - you want to savor it all and most of all you want him inside you when he drags that blade across your throat. The wound down the side of your face stings so sweetly that you barely notice a staff member coming fast towards you from the opposite direction.

 

He knocks you off balance, fumbles for a broken apology and doesn’t look back.

 

“... idiot,” you breathe and then, realizing he’s running right into Eddie, you laugh aloud. 

 

A series of male screams alights your senses, all of them behind you and, beyond the piercing sound, you can hear Eddie singing. He relishes in the bloodlust, just as he had before. As you run, you picture the team that Murkoff will send out to clean up the mess. They’ll review the security footage and find you, a lowly nurse, beating the shit out of one of the patients. Some of them may watch long enough to see you dashing through the building, laughing as Eddie chases you.

 

The sounds of someone chanting - another patient perhaps - slips through the walls, growing louder as you slam a door open just as the warning lights highlight it. A second later and you’d have run right into it.

 

Behind you, Eddie’s voice shouts gleefully, “Is this what stirs your passion? I do hope it does, my Dear! - Because my passion has been rather… _ shaken _ ...” 

 

You feel your stomach pulse with pleasure as he begins to catch up with you.

 

“ _ The candles guttered, _ ” he soothes, growing ever closer, “ _ and I can smell your sweet perfume as starlight leaves the sky _ \- Oh,  _ yesss _ … my Dear…”

 

Yes, oh god yes… Eddie…

 

Insane mutterings from one of the other escaped patients pause as soon as the door behind you slams shut. One of the labs stares back at you. Rows of blue UV lights mixing into bright mauve against the warning red that’s still blazing in circles from the ceiling.

 

The mumbling patient creeps out of the shadows, holding his face in his hands until he’s too close and you shove him away. Glass beakers clatter to the floor as he stumbles back, hitting one of the metal desks in a drugged haze. Violence still breaches his fog, but he’s slow and your faster. Evading him is easy, and off you go, leaving another kill for Eddie as you put more space between you both - the hunt livening your senses.

 

You hover for a moment outside the lab as Eddie bursts into the room on a chorus of heavy timbre tunes and ragged panting breaths.

 

In seconds, the sounds of carnage leaks between the ajar door. You listen, swallowing with guarded pleasure as blood splashes across the floor.

 

“ _ The thrill has gone, to linger on… _ down you go - yes, yes,” Eddie coos over the wet sounds, “that’s right. _ It’s all over now. _ ” 

 

He leaves a breadcrumb trail of corpses as he chases after you. Will the tracks end with your crumpled body; contorted and cold? - Or will Mr. Gluskin continue his path of carnage long after you're gone?

 

As you run blindly forward, you hit the cold steel of the elevator door with your face. For a second, more than just your vision is gone. With your ears ringing and head a steady pound of blood and pressure, your knees slap on the floor. You brace a hand on the elevator… wondering, when had you fallen? - Where were you?

 

Running… from Eddie. 

 

The hunt - the chase. 

 

Yesss… oh god, yes… he was coming for you, and you’d nearly knocked yourself out cold. With your forehead resting dizzyingly against the elevator doors, you chuckle. A headache is already brewing, but it’s like background noise for your nerves; barely registering.

 

A dark chuckle reverberates behind you, so close that the hairs on your neck pinch within your skin.

 

Eddie, appearing from the abyss at your back, groans against the crown of your head and sings gently, “ _... would spoil it anyhow; so let's creep away from the day. For the party’s overrrr nowwww... _ ” 

 

A smooth, iron-willed hand wraps bands of pressure around your ankle, jerking you away from the elevators until the floor meets your chin in a white flash; teeth banging together. Roughness was what you expected, and death was never easy, but pain is still pain and you grunt and wince, feeling sore as Eddie drags you across the floor by your kicking ankle.

 

Eddie gasps, pleasure coating his every breath as he tosses you on your back. He straddles your waist and, like a midnight tumble filled with loving kisses and heated passion, your stomach flutters. 

 

It’s shocking, but also expected when he raises the knife - a flash of red light washing over him in mid-lunge. He plunges the blade down inside your right arm, missing bone and all the fatter veins, but wedges it just under the bend of muscle, making sure it hurts. All you can manage is a soft grunt as sharp pain stiffens everything from the shoulder down to your fingertips.

 

He’s stabbed you; you think blindly. Of course he did, and of course, there will be more. 

 

The whimper that floods out of your mouth as he slips the blade back out is weak enough you almost feel ashamed. He lays the wet, warm edge over your neck and the sound you make reminds you of the noises you’d made in your bed, trying and failing to give yourself some sense of physical release from the passion he stirs in you. 

 

Blood bubbles from the deep stab wound and suddenly his teeth are edging your clothed breast. Every touch and stroke of his mouth over thin cotton jostles the blade on your throat. The kiss of hot coals, you think as his teeth bite down on the stiff bud of your nipple; cotton drenching under his tongue. 

 

The darkness amplifies everything until the cold floor feels like it’s burning you as wonderfully as Eddie’s tongue does.

 

The sticky blade catches in the collar of your scrubs, nicks the below and brings forth more blood…

 

… but before Eddie can slice your shirt down the middle, he retreats. 

 

“No, don’t let me end our game too soon!” he gushes, running a thumb through the blood on his knife. All that blood. You’d be worried about contamination if you weren’t so sure tonight was going to be your last. 

 

Eddie grins - wide and indulgent - and tells you softly, “... I want to feel your heart fluttering like a baby bird, so swift…  _ so afraid _ . I want your fear, my Darling.”

 

The red captures him like snapped pictures that melt into darkness. One moment he’s heaving with silent chuckles and the next he’s licking his lips with hooded eyes cast down on you.

 

“Eddie,” you moan, feeling your insides writhe with blood and desire, “... please.”

 

Any more and your heart will burst...

 

Like a dark blessing, his fingers begin to tug and tear at your scrubs until, with a bestial snarl, he slips and yanks the blade upwards through the tight drawstring around your hips. He lifts the tattered remains of your shirt off your belly and hums with pleasure. Warm, thick fingers stroke your naked flesh, fingering your navel and behind tight lips, you whimper.

 

His knife clatters to the floor only for his other hand to cup your throat - thumb pressing under your chin - and it’s with a hard rumble of thunder in your ears that Eddie reaches down and finally…. finally kisses you.

 

His breath shudders and moans, perversely decadent and gratified as your lips tremble open. The floor is hard and unforgiving on your back but it cools you as Eddie warms you… feeling like nothing compared to the indulgent slide of his lips on your own. His kiss is hard and fierce; tasting like blood. 

 

You open your lips to swallow his tongue, making the most depraved moans as he tastes your gums and teeth.

 

Against your lips, he tells you with a vague promise, “Forgive me, my Dear… but it would seem you’re too tempting to refuse,” he pauses, lips at the corner of your mouth now, “and you know how…  _ overzealous _ I can be.”

 

His fingers trace the puffy stab wound on your arm, brushing the open slices of skin until you curl and gasp.

 

You shake within his unfettered hands, both large palms sliding to wrap around your face and throat, holding you still as he speaks with a gentle, but threatening tone against the edge of your hairline, “Such a shame. Such a… crime to tarnish something so perfect. But you know, this is my burden to bear.”

 

The red warning lights pulse and all you see are the tendons standing out on his throat, marked with old and new blood stains from all the people - patients and staff - he’s killed tonight.

 

“Don’t be afraid. I cannot promise I’ll be gentle, but it won’t last long,” Eddie promises, lifting you without warning until you're cradled in his arms like a half-dead bride. He presses a soft, almost gallant, kiss to your forehead and without another word, he walks with you down the corridor. You note the bolted sign marking the passage to A-block and feel your stomach clenched with excitement. Is he going to ruin you in his cell… on his bed? 

 

Eddie hums happily, fingers bruising around your arm and underneath your knees as pain jolts you with every step. The hard bang of a double-steel door echoes in your ears and with a clatter of thunder comes a flash of lightning; exposing two armored security officers slumps in a pool of black on the floor. The trail of overflowing gore is already sloping down the drain underneath the bolted bed.

 

_ “I’ll cut you. I’ll fuck you, _ ” Eddie half-sings, as he lays you down on the unmade hospital bed, “and I’ll fill your belly… so full of my seed, you’ll have to swallow it back down. We can’t be wasteful now… can we?”

 

The idea of gulping down his cum, of spreading your legs around his narrow hips until he’s had his fill feels like you’re giving yourself up to a malevolent creature - something not of this world… and you love it. 

 

You nod, muttering ‘yes, please’ over and over as you spread your palms over his chest; peppering his throat with kisses that taste of copper.

 

“Good. Good, yess… that’s my good girl.” His words tickle your tongue, making you moan.

 

Someone screams above you on the second floor and just like that you giggle, tears welling up in your lashes.

 

He settles between your thighs with a manic grin; eyes flashing like headlights on a dark highway when the storm outside coats him in electric light. One moment he’s stroking your bare stomach, letting your lips glide through the blood over his bobbing Adam’s apple only to pin your down by the neck a second later. You swallow, choking softly under his palm.

 

He shreds your shirt with the knife curled inside your collar, digs it deep under the clasp of your bra and cuts down until your breasts spill out - naked and pebbled - and the grey halves of your scrubs wrinkle around your sides. Eddie clicks his tongue, brands your left breast in a slice deep enough to make you sing and lays the blade on the bed. 

 

“What a,” he grunts, laying more weight into the hand around your neck, “beautiful noise… and your form - such  _ decadent _ curves.”

 

His shoulders lift, head dropping down and licks up a trail over one puckered nipple as tears fall down the sides of your face. The sensations are overwhelming - the pain and the pleasure… married and warring.

 

With one fist wrapped in the torn edge of your pants, Eddie rips them down one leg, baring his teeth against the fluttering lightning as he strips you naked. Blood and sexual fluids have sealed your cunt to your pink-stained underwear and with his reedy inhale, a fresh flood of wetness leaks forth. 

 

Before Eddie’s fingers run to your dripping flesh, you reach through the darkness, and tug his hand to your chin, sucking his middle digit into your mouth shamelessly.

 

“Oh, God,” Eddie gasps, running his lips along your jawline, clenching your neck in his passion, “... it’s worse than I thought! You're wanton; lusty. You little slut…” - he says it with an almost loving tone and you smile and nip his knuckle with teeth, sucking lewdly.

 

He shudders and groans as you hook a finger around the sticky string of cotton between your thighs and remove the blood-drenched hindrance, careful not to bump his groin or the hanging drape of his hospital shirt. As thunder booms, you toss the soaked object across the floor and hook your ankles at his back.

 

In the darkness, he won’t know the difference… and there’s so much blood already. 

 

The cotton below his navel is wet and stiff when you start to finger it. Globs of jellied blood lodge under your nails but you care little for it when the hot, dense skin below is so firm under your knuckles. His hips tilt.

 

Eddie tugs his finger out your mouth with an intoxicating groan and wraps a palm around your elbow, making you whimper. Your pain makes him chuckle; breathless. 

 

Too focused on releasing the knot - of getting his cock free - that the scratch of cushioned pressure around your wrist doesn’t bother you until the latch clicks and secures your wrist in leather and thick metal slack. 

 

He’s cuffed you to the bed. One wrist then two and you suck in a breath, marveling at the way he has to tug and pull the wrappings past their manufactured width; making sure they’re tight and...yes… make sure you’re not going anywhere.

 

“Thank you… oh, fuck me,” you whimper as he picks up your naked hips in two enormous hands, twists you over the bed and drops you entirely on the mattress. 

 

You swallow, playing the vision of him over and over in your head until a flash exposes him beside you. A knee on the edge of the bed - the hint of a hard cock about to be freed. His thumbs had been in the hem, and the drawstrings had been hanging between his legs… oh, God…

 

In the sudden abyss, you can hear the wet gasping of his breath against your face as he crawls above you. There's no eager fight left in you once the damp, strength of his cock prods your mound. All you can do is roll your head back and try to guide him inside you with your heels in the loose cotton over the backs of his thighs.

 

“Now, my Darling… let me hear you sing for me.”

 

“ _... kill me, fuck me _ ,” you sing, breathing like a wounded animal in the snow.

 

Lightning flashes make him a disjointed slideshow, but you can see the blood-soaked shirt on its midway journey over his sheared scalp - the gloss of dark and light that plays over his tense stomach; thick and tapered down into hips that frame his massive, erect cock.

 

You see wide-shoulders hunched over you. A toothy, wild grin topped with keen eyes. The flash of his fingers over his groin as he wraps long fingers around the organ you want the most. He’s a static play of depravity and the moments of darkness in between heighten your expectation until Eddie is shoving his cock inside your blood-soaked cunt, making you shake and scream on a high note.

 

So many nights you’ve gone to bed thinking about this. 

 

The heat of his groin burns as severely and beautiful as the stretch of your insides. You pant and squirm until his balls smack the cleft of your ass. Sharp roots of pain take hold below your navel, growing up as far as your ribs and as low as your knees. He’s so large and sooo, so deep.

 

“Such a soft welcoming,” he sighs, kissing your stiff nipple, “... so wet and moist. The perfect soil to grow my seed.”

 

“Eddie,” you breath, feeling light-headed. There’s no point telling him his efforts tonight will be pointless, although the implications make you think he doesn’t mean to kill him. If he hopes you’ll swell with his child then indeed his plans to murder, you have all been a fabrication of your own need. You’d beg him for it now but he begins to thrust into you - a leisurely rhythm - that alights your nerves with hellfire.

 

You hiss between soft sobs and spread your thighs wider, rolling your hips down enough that your clit strikes the scratchy firm layer of muscle above his cock.

 

“Yes,” he moans, kissing your weeping breast before rising, “... yes, just like that. Feel us joined. That’s it. Relish it.”

 

You do - you relish the pain as well, welcoming the twinge in your mangled arm as you curl your stomach and throw your hips down into the divot he makes of his hips. He’s a vast, darkened figure coiled before you; thick biceps flexed outwards, holding your knees open as he fucks you with slow, slapping hilts of girthy cock. The lightning and thunder play wars that give hints at his expression; frantic and thirsty and in love. 

 

You want to kiss him, but settle on masticating your lower lip until the sharp notes of blood slip between your tongue.

 

Eddies snarls, watching you the same as you do him, through the lightning show. Past the thunder, the sounds of wet firm skin smacks brutally and the cloying moans you make under Eddie’s grunting is like music.

 

“Come to me, my Darling.”

 

He slides further up the bed, forcing your back to bow and hips to raise inside his lap so he can pluck up your neck in his fist again. His fingers bruise your throat in his grip but he’s tugging you upwards… higher and higher until your arms stretch in their manacles and you're sitting forcefully in his lap - on his cock. You sob, feel him so far up inside you that the touch is more than intimate…

 

His hips seesaw and you move effortlessly with him; stomach muscles twisting under sweat. 

 

Thunderbolts expose the stupefied look of pleasure that contorts his face; perfect. Dull nails dig into your spine, driving you faster inside his lap until it feels like your arms are about to shred and the pleasure becomes a second entity inside his cell - the room.

 

His rough hand squeezes your neck ardently as you work yourself over him. The depth is deeper but your clit presses heavily down on that unyielding strip of muscle, and everything feels unnaturally good. The pains might still be there, hidden under euphoria, and damage may yet be done, but it doesn’t hurt and your orgasm is fast flooding your body. It’s wet and tight; turning the rolling of your joined hips into piercing, squelching sounds of fluids trapped by hot skin. 

 

Underneath your spread thighs, Eddie’s hips still. The pads of his fingers clench and unclench, barely moving you over his lap…

 

“You little whore,” he whispers as your cunt contracts around his cock. Swallowing loud enough you can hear it beyond the torrents outside his barricades room, Eddie pets your thighs and hips with devotion. From what visuals you catch of him in the storm flashes, what Eddie feels is different than what he voices. He flickers from expressions of bliss, awe and wonder and downturned gratification, looking as though he doesn’t know if he’s worthy of the gift you’ve given him.

 

“I-I…” you stutter, still locked in the ebbing convulsions of your orgasm, “... can’t stop, it’s so good… can’t help it.” 

 

“Beautiful…” he says so quietly you almost mistake it for your own shivering moans. Eddie repeats it, hips rocking with renewed purpose, fueling the heavy throbbing of your cunt. “Oh’oooh… my beautiful filthy-filthy little whore... do it for me again!” 

 

He rips with laughter, grabbing your hips hard enough to crush if only one more pound of pressure was applied, but you sob and flounder his name until he slacks off, mashing your lower bodies together in a wet display as the storm rages on.

 

Without the flash of lightning to prepare you, it’s jarring when his forehead dips and rests between your heaving breasts. 

 

“I’m so sorry…” Eddie babbles, holding you as he bounces you up and down, “I can be… a bit....  _ vulgar _ . It’s not my intent - oh, my Darling… no one else could be so generous to a man so unworthy.”

 

The metal frame of the bolted down bed squeaks as he spreads his knees out towards the edge of the mattress, holding your bottom over his thighs and promptly fucks up inside you; fast and brutal compared to your exhausted rhythm. You're breasts slap up and down; spine bent back to give your arms mercy as they stretch down to the bed frame. 

 

"More," you gasp and then when Eddie moans and pummels you all the harder you beg for 'more, more... yes, fuck... Eddie, more!' Oh, god... but it's so good you'd let him snap you in half...

 

For a moment you think you hear the peppering sound of gunshots above the angry squeal of metal and the hurried squelch of sodden skin but pleasure warps your mind and you quickly forget about anything but the feeling between your thighs.

 

Eddie squeezes your hip and back, gasping hot breath down your chest until a feeling so encompassing starts to bleed around you, closing you in. Whatever the feeling is - an orgasm… or death? - it’s an extraordinary thing growing inside. So many months you’ve been obsessed with the events of tonight… that locking yourself in the present moment feels like holding onto the impossible. 

 

May it never end, you think… but of course… all good things end...

 

Whatever storm is brewing beneath your skin is hot without having a temperature and it’s slow and brutal. The blood between your legs is gushing, lubricating his cock, and when Eddie’s teeth hook on your sternum - his hips tilting desperately upwards - you dig your nails down on his curled stomach and… fuck…

 

Warm summer rain, you think with a choked smile.

 

Eddie snarls, wraps his hands around your throat like a coiled snake and halfway through your orgasm - because yes, it can’t be anything else but - the sweaty sheets hit your back and Eddie’s above you; fucking like an unleashed beast after a long teased morsel. He hammers your insides hard enough you think your guts might spill out your throat but that would be alright. Preferred, maybe. Your rose-tinted insanity takes care of whatever harm he does to you.

 

“ _ Night is over, dawn is breaking _ ,” he stutters on a song, hot breath washing over your pounding face, “ _... everywhere the town is waking.  _ Don’t fight it, my Darling.” His tongue reaches out to lick away a crust of dried blood, growling passionately against your parted lips as they twitch; going purple.

 

In the distance, gunfire reverberates down the hallway. They’re coming - whoever or whatever they are.

 

Instead of sobbing your pain, you twitch and moan your pleasure, still in the throes of bliss as Eddie’s thumbs press inside your carotid arteries; clogging your brain with stifled blood.

 

“... y-y-yeh… yesss,” you choke, grinning as tears start to pool in your eyes, spilling fast down the sides of your face. Lightning flashes and you see teeth bared and one wild pupil watching you as you begin to fade away.

 

When beams of light flood into the room, spearing across your bodies, you don’t register that men are behind them or that the flashlights are locked to assault rifles. All you understand is that Eddie is cast in steady light, covered in sweat and blood and hard muscle - all the bundle of tension writhes as he pounds his cock inside you with the most enormous grin stretching his face. 

 

He’s beautiful...

 

Your eyes roll back in your head as Eddie snarls and the men invading the room shout orders and demands. 

 

Murkoff wouldn’t let this place go to hell… not for very long anyway. The town of Arklane was too big to pay off or dismantle. If you weren’t so clusterfucked in the head and in the body - Eddie playing inside you - then you may have been surprised it took them so long to send in backup.

 

Your body rocks - breasts bouncing hard - at the fast pace of Eddie’s thrusts; heedless of the interruption. Nothing outside you matters to him and it’s hauntingly sweet.

 

Men in tactical gear bark. 

 

One of them falters, flashlight and gun barrel wavering over you getting brutally and wonderfully fucked on the hospital bed. It must look wrong because indeed… the sight of Eddie Gluskin’s red-streaked cock impaling you so mercilessly, hands around your throat and the bodies on the floor, could be cause for concern. 

 

The task force hesitates just long enough for the hard pounding cock inside you to twitch and flood your insides with hot stinging cum. The sound you hear above you, despite the shouting, is so fulfilling you manage a sob of thanks behind his tight grip. Eddie’s throat hitches and one long, desperate breath washes over you.

 

“My-my… _ Love _ ,” he calls you as he cums. Unaware or uncaring of the audience, he tugs you up and kisses your numb lips as the guns aim at him.

 

You would return the gesture, but everything feels like it’s moving through wet sand. The flashlights pulse into dimness as the men tear Eddie off you; out of you. They throw him to the ground with their guns steady in the strobing darkness but Eddie just grunts and laughs. He hits the floor hard, muting him only a second before you hear him start to shudder, giggle and sing.

 

You gasp and pant like a dying animal on the bed while consciousness starts to creep back in through the euphoria, but you know better than to fight the men there to ‘save’ you. 

 

For some reason, they don’t kill Eddie… or you. If you weren’t struggling to process what was happening around you, sucking in breaths to drench your arid lungs, you’d wonder if it didn’t have something to do with the cum bubbling out of you…

 

They don’t know you're menstruating… all they see is a raped woman strapped to a bed with blood and semen oozing out of her. It’s almost enough to make you laugh if just to marvel at how wrong they are.

 

Once they secure an unhinged Mr. Gluskin, one of the men lowers his rifle beside you. He drapes a foul sheet over your nakedness as if to cover your modesty. You blink, chest heaving for air as the man stares at you through the black lens of his goggles. The one with the Murkoff badge behind him patches in, reports that they have Eddie Gluskin alive, ‘safe and sound’ but that there’s a woman here and she’s in need of emergency medical assistance. 

 

You listen as the man’s muffled voice stutters a little against his radio, “She-she’s hurt real bad, Sir.”

 

The one beside you removes his mask, revealing warm brown eyes edged in empathy, shock, and disgust. He puts a hand on your naked shoulder as if offering some comfort but little do they know how well fucked you are. The little twitch of your lips may look like you appreciate the gesture despite how ‘wounded’ you are, but its the way Eddie sings your name to the ceiling, painting you in flowery, snarling praise that brings the smile to your lips.

 

Nameless Hero offers you empty reassurances under his breath as you lay there trying not to laugh as they fill Eddie full of sedatives.

 

It doesn’t matter what happens next. Wherever Murkoff takes Eddie after Skelbrick Hospital… you’ll be there. Wherever they take you now, you’ll talk your way out. And maybe next time you find him, it’ll be easier than it was this time. Because unless they throw you in a padded cell, there’s nothing they’ll be able to do to keep you away from him.

 

Eddie hasn’t finished what he started yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and made it this far. I had some writer's block halfway through this, but I hope I've recaptured the vibe and it ended up being enjoyable. Let me know what you think, please. I struggled with this for some reason and I'd love some feedback, especially if something doesn't feel right. 
> 
> Big thanks and shout out to Dark Fucamus for helping me figure how what wasn't working in this. The help is incredibly appreciated. <3
> 
>  
> 
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